Launcelot looked down at her for a moment.

“You know that tree where you fainted?” he asked.

A little shrug of Judy’s shoulder was the only answer.

“Well, it was struck by lightning before I got back—­”

“Really—?” Judy was facing him now, breathless with interest.

“Really, Judy.”  His face was very grave.

“Oh, oh,” she wailed, softly, “oh, and I might have been there—­”

“Yes.”

She shivered and sat up.  Her wet hair, half braided, trailed its dark length over her shoulder.  Her eyes were big, and her face was white.

“What a baby I was,” she said, nervously, “what a baby, Launcelot—­not to see the danger—­”

“You trust to your Uncle Launcelot, next time, little girl, and don’t get fussy,” was the big boy’s way of stopping her thanks.

“I will,” she promised, and the smile she gave him meant more than the words.

“It has stopped raining,” said Anne from the door.

The cool spring air blew across the fields softly, bringing with it the fresh smell of the sodden earth and the scent of the wet pines.

“The Judge will be here in a minute,” said Launcelot; “he stayed in the carriage, and Perkins put up the curtains, so that they managed to keep pretty dry.

“I wonder if there will be room for me to ride home?” Tommy asked.  “I am dead tired.”

“I guess so.  The Judge has the big wagon with the three seats.  Pretty long tramp you had, didn’t you?” and Launcelot looked at the boy’s dusty shoes.

“Awful,” said Tommy, with a quiver in his voice at the remembrance.

“Hungry?” questioned Launcelot, briefly.

“Awful,” said Tommy again.  “I haven’t had a square meal for a week,” and now the quiver was intensified.

Amelia clasped her hands tragically.  “Oh, Tommy,” she asked in a stricken tone, “didn’t you almost die?”

But just then Tommy caught Judy’s eye on him, and was forced to continue his character of bold adventurer.

“Oh, a man must expect things like that,” he asserted.  “Suppose it had been a desert island—­”

“Or a shipwreck,” said Amelia, “with bread and water for a week.”

“Or pirates,” ventured Nannie.

“Oh, pirates,” sniffed the dark young lady on the hay; “there aren’t any pirates now.”

“Well, there are shipwrecks,” defended Tommy.

“Yes, but they are not half as interesting as they used to be.”

“And desert islands.”

“A few maybe.  But it is such an old story to hear about Robinson Crusoes.”

Tommy looked blank.  He had always implicitly believed the marvelous tales of yarn spinners, and his soul had been fired by the thought of a life of adventure on the deep.  He had talked to the little girls until they had accounted him somewhat of a hero and looked to him to perform great feats of bravery.